******* up souls and spitting out spells
from tentacles with lips at the tips that talk.
Belching out blasphemies from the birth of filth,
that causes the blood to boil from within.
One single eye to pierce the fear filled mind;
a glare that bores - gray matter hungry probe.
The color of wretched bile, with a similar scent.
An oozing beast that has haunted the aeons;
speaking through nightmares and whispering
a supply of chilly lies into the ears of brittle men.

Karzak Gordra on high
Dwell within the murky depths
of man's rotten mind

Swim to your meal, Karzak Gordra
Make home in the dark
and pass over the young

Karzak Gordra on high
Fear naught, filthy lad
Weep for me in days to come

I trade my footing for liquid paradise

An aquatic Eden of my design

Isolation is a lullaby

Publicity is the nightmare that follows

Steadily sinking below the waves

My glory waits at the lake bed

No one to see me here as the darkness intensifies

I seek only the silence that the surface lacks

My body goes limp as the waves move me

Sinking has never been so uplifting

As my body gently reaches the bottom

The last of the air leaves my lungs

It will not be missed

I am content here in my dark paradise

It is quiet

It is calm

It is lonely

Peace and tranquility at last

Those vulpine eyes

and crooked smile

could hold my thoughts steady.

The sky is missing a maiden,

and the sea is missing its robe,

but sheltered are you,

in the mists and tears of

a time when I was loved

Truth be told, I was skeptical.
Was this worth the cowry shell equivalent?
My mind was a dry skin covered foot caught on a fleece blanket.
My tongue, lined with the taste of that earthy bile.
Distant isles between Alaska and Ayahuasca,
but it all comes rushing back. Jungle visions.
-
I
        take
                    ten
               ­              sickly      
                                          steps
                ­                                     toward
                                                          ­         the
                                                             ­              teetering  
                                                     ­                                      ethereal
                                                        ­                                                  edge.
-
She's once again lined with that finespun glow.
I'm once again letting the little things go.
She's letting me know for the very first time.
I'm struggling to find words for the very last rhyme.
-
                                        Trudging
       ­     tip-toed
through
                                           ­                       the
                  nonlinear
      narr­ative;
                                       elegantly
                                                       ­     elephantine.
-
Lick your wounds, traveler.
Set your eyes to the pale star's gleam.
Dogma unraveller
with an elementary scheme.
We are nature's instruments.
We are watchers in the night.
Softened slightly by the dissonance
of the dearly departed Wight.
-
He's slipping in and out.
Orbium linguam avium.
Labra lege: hic sunt dracones.
Let us dine on cremated elves.
-
     m sw ll   w  ng sw rds   nd st rs.
R zn hdzooldrmt hdliwh zmw hgzih.
I a         a  o   i          o      a         a  .
I am swallowing swords and stars.
-
.ecnatsbus em evig dna eniltuo ym nekraD
.savnac eruza siht otno seye s'ti tsac dluow nuS eht hsiw I
?suhpysiS fo redluob eht I mA
.noitcerid gnorw eht ni gnilbmut no peek I
-
We're sailing on the calmest of waters,
but there is not a drop to drink.
Bad news for the boy who only rejects omens.
I will not hang a dead bird around my neck.
Retrace the lace and my hazy days of habit,
then let me know your honest opinion.
Exhibit an execution by exsiccation of the most exuberant exiles.
Or am I the only one who's thirsty?
-
                                                      ­                      Who here is the ghost?
I know **** well it's not me.
                                                             ­                            Who said that?
I know I did.
                                                            ­                                        Didn't I?
Couldn't be.                                                              ­            
                                                    ­                                                    Am I?No.                                  
                         ­           Hopper, this isn't sinking in.
I am not a liar.
-
0111011101100101

011000010111001001100101

01101111011­100100110011101100001011011100110100101100011

011011010110000101­1000110110100001101001011011100110010101110011
-
I was supposed to be writing something down.
Some kind of secret; some kind of rune.
Can you help me find our primal core?
Your carnal truths are mine to keep.
Weren't you supposed to be going somewhere?
The flea burrow, no, The Doubling House.
For in those halls of mold and paper walls
your memories were uneagerly forged.
It's time to shed your summer skin
and begin to eat with your hands.

An unusual crowd gathers

I can make out faces through every window

Blank, staring, sea of faces

Eyes fixed on the hillside across the way

My house seems only an obstruction

An optical obstacle obscuring an oncoming out pour

Unblinking they look at that overgrown hill

Where the wild brush spreads and those old rails stay planted

Stretching east to west

Those ******* rails that those ******* trains

would rumble down at four in the morning

Blaring their horns and shaking my bed

Until the sun woke up on schedule, like clockwork

Over and down the hillside, water starts to trinkle

Slipping and sliding

How ghastly it grows

From stream to spout

to rivers with rapids

Until the tidal wave shows its face - blank, staring

Eyes fixed on me

In the face of the end, I turn and flee

So many loved ones and trinkets to save

But the water is up to my knees

And the crowd - unmoving, unthinking

Without a gasp or a word of dismay

They open their mouths to drink in the doom

Parched since the prelude for the secession of air

Too late for nostalgia

Impact.

Empty handed the crow and dove shall return

My naivety died with my father
at the bottom of Lake Shelbyville
when I was seven years old
and still losing little teeth.
-
I turn twenty-four next week;
January the fifteenth.
I can still sense the difference between you and I
by the long pauses in between weather talks.
-
I find solace in solitude
and that will never change.
Too many years of misunderstandings,
dope addled family, and conflict avoidance.
-
My mother has an addictive personality
which she tries to superimpose onto me
as a way to keep me away from the ****.
She wants me to be her negative film; her opposite.
-
I wish my grandma had leveled with her
instead of surrounding drugs with the mystique
and the danger of a loaded weapon
in a teenager's back pocket; denim daredevil.
-
Grandma.
Now that is a name I miss saying.
She was the stern force that matured me
and my protector in time of matriarchal absence.
-
Her mind started to die years before her body did
and I had to sit and watch it happen, helpless,
with my mother; her daughter.
Alzheimer's, falls, strokes, and in a flash she wasn't there.
-
I don't find myself rooting for the cause these days.
I just want to escape where I came from;
who I am, but the path is circular.
I'm accepting the fate, bathing in lust, and waiting for summer.

The safety of the black, winding, snake of a trail is like an arrow pointing me home.

I flee from this serpent of tar, for the promise of discovery awaits me at the bottom of the hill.

I’m surrounded on all sides by the Sylvan Queen, her antlered familiars, and her army of trees.

I need only to march east to return to the realm of men and metal, but the woods beckon still.

I blanket myself under the brittle fallen leaves that have felt autumn’s kiss and gravity’s hand.

With hesitance, I find myself starting to give in to Gaea’s soft spell of slumber.

I hear the hymns of the birds in their language true and old.

I see the dreams of the cicadas painted vibrantly in the overcast sky.

Wispy, subtle words leave your tongue,
floating from lips to ear with ease.
Leaving behind a trail of silver dust;
sonic spores spinning streams of song.
Lighter than the air they rest upon.

One voice, bending harmonies into new mold.
Locking my eyes into place.
Paralyzed from the fear of any movement -
making a noise to scamper into this sacred sound scape.
Fluttering lyrics like brittle, little moths
seeking out a flame. Dying to be heard.

Melodies lifting, lingering in yellow.
Dissonance, crisply crashing, mixing to green.
Washed away by a refreshing blue refrain.
Only to be boiled into the ole' gold chorus.

Anthem of awakening for the foolish sleeper.
This is the song of the migrating flock -
the hymn of the winter-slumbering hive
to tell of the memories of many springs past.

So I sit, simmering in suspense.
Hoping, praying that the silence not return.

Sounds of leaves laughing as the wind -
tickles them on the tips of their branch-homes.

Melancholy miracles mask my madness
An altered air arises
Gilded, glowing, globes glide, guarding garish Gods
I illustrate illegitimate integrity in incarnadine
Corporeal creations cast crimson

hurry boy, don't doze
etch the words before they perish
as the situation once again alters
coiling around your wrist
tugging you to that place
sleep every moment
dwelling in the blankets
soaking in that stale security
false impressions attached/removed
like velcro ripping in the silence
masks on masks on masks on masks on masks on
could spend days pruning in the seabed of potential
while the salt collects on my eyelashes and the days vanish like eons
there are days where the stillness in me quakes my feet
into the fervor of rabbit under moving tire and
I pound the walls for a train to pass and shake the foundation
but the tracks are too far away now, and the stillness creeps
dust collects on the fan blades, then the plastic grating, then the intake
the thing rattles all night now; loose ***** in the front
hardly a substitute for that rumble in your dreams
from an archer daniel's car rushing by at four
the bed is a lot better at this place though
king size, though I'd rather be in california
where the water is warm and the memories catch your falls
I've never been there and the idea is always better than the outcome
kicking sand like a beach bully *** flexing in strut
sun burns within seconds of shirtless self-reveals
the salt is being washed off of the cars
from an illinois winter that the plow conquered to the dismay of
the kids down the block who still waited
at dawn for the diesel yellow groan
the heat is swelling in the season
chirps return with the sting
of rolled up passenger windows
magnifying the clean white light
ninety-eight million miles marched
to a single point on a pale dot
burning that poor gal's cheek
but the medicinal effects
of the smooch are more than known
to generations of the summer awakened,
free-falling, reality born.
here we are again with showers and flowers,
here we are again with cyclones in the alley,
here we are again with cocoons and buffoons,
here we are again with milk in the valley.
this heart pumps as the snow goes rising
to the funnels and pillars east-stretched
where the baby boomers buy plots and
the love begins to reach for an even share.

The threads of nostalgia bind me to this patchwork blanket
of soy farms and swamp land horizons.
This region has birthed me from her soil,
and in Midwestern arms I am sheltered.

ambiance amplified and gravitas dead inside
drink alone, danger zone, shot the Jekyll, saved the Hyde
cut my seat belts so my doors wouldn't beep, though
I creep with a fleet of conceited banditos
to the park, skip some rocks, play the shark, shuffle birds
find the narc, go and knock, make it bark, no one heard
a million reason to stay awake wide-eyed tonight
ninety-nine *******, one problem: you're in my line of sight
black & decker woodpecker, fur-trap chop with my power-drill
trill wagon, cool dragon flagon of honey mead on the window sill
unseen fiends mean for stones out beating streets to smithereens
you only live nine times: shake the earth, **** the silver screens
pair of sweet, pear-shaped tweets for you to meet in the suite,
they can show, you can see that they know how to greet
enough throwaways to keep boost mobile open
enough light reflecting princess cuts that they think my neck is frozen

I'm telling lies to terrorize tame territory,
and so they'll strip me down, string me up, and bleed me dry of glory.
Mourning from the morning after, hanging from a ceiling rafter.
Two rows of platinum canines, call me a gangsta-veloci-rapper.

Truly emancipated, drinking whiskey from Lincoln's skull.
Proclamation of my bank roll grants more ***** than animal control.
Flicking cigarettes at MC's who think they're superior,
into their passenger window to burn holes in their interior.

I run all night, jiggle my handle after flushing.
All the plump gals seem to love me, I've got their cellulite a'blushing.
I don't like *****, but I'll sip on something Russian,
if you ship her in the mail first class from your Middle-Euro cousin.

Tethered no more by this umbilical chain
We break through the shell - Burst through the seed
Fingers laced and reaching up toward the big blue
Eyes gaining sight, sight meeting light
We bathe ourselves in the warming glow
Sol's sweet kiss to ease and simmer
Terra's touch to point the steps
We haven't much further to climb
-
Tree of Life - Home - Mother - Bed
Your roots we leave for Eden
Sky of Thought - Dream - Father- Blanket
Your wind will guide our wings
We gain friend in fire, rock, and storm
To tinker with the gifts of Titans
Together we rise and seek the stars
So we may spread the songs and preach the past
-
We go by Gaea, We go by God
Underneath our pagan star's shine
At night, symphonies will charm them
And we dance together until we fade
gain we lay into the palms of dream
The fingers of sleep, clench to a fist
Grinding us down to the finest of dusts
To glow and blow into the zephyrs
-

oh, the sun is burning hot
as the waves rise up off of the black top
forming the familiar distortion
distinctly laced with humidity.

the young man marches, toes exposed
with flip-flops smacking down
and on the verge of melting
to the grand avenue sidewalk.

fuzzy memories like warped records
spin their sharps and flats in awkward places
and bring scent trails of teenage years:
bonfires, exhaust, lingering birdcages.

kreckel's still serves the same lemon ice cream,
but the billiards out back have been closed for a time.
quarters spent on raiden fighters rust in time
as the men muttering in the background play bumper pool.

the heat still feels the same in present summer,
and some of the same faces stay on the card.
routine and commitments are starting to build,
blurring the expressions of familiarity into fog.

the young man marches, face exposed
to the blistering light of day
as lines start to form where charm has twinkled
in the schoolyard and stagnant hallways.

years spent in sleep are pulsating
as the lull between cicadas
seems to stretch the summers south
to the screeching of metallic showcases.

he's buckled to the cracks in the concrete
that bulge upward and trip drunks after last call.
unshackled only to ride shotgun with the few
that still remember their seventh grade summers.

On the index of existence my name is erased

I am forgotten in the eyes of your lord

My name can’t be uttered by your human tongue

I am the vessel in which fear is poured

-

I sit on my throne of nothing

I wait for my time to return

By sin or by fire, I’ll wipe the slates clean

In my name all the worlds will burn

-

I gorge my belly on the runes of the past

I drink from the fountain of tears

My right hand contains the power of malice

My left hand holds the darkness to awaken your fears

-

I sit on my throne of nothing

My wrath is mighty and old

By hate or by suffering, I’ll wipe the slates clean

In my name the stars will grow cold

On this day I rise to the astral plane and break open the void

The strange matter leaks forth from space and takes an unspeakable form

-

My portal grows so rapidly

With the power of the stars combined

Spilling forth the ancient ooze

That for eons has been confined

-

Such power above comprehension

A conjuration beyond human mind

This plague springs from the cosmos

Leaving only emptiness behind

-

The space in between dimensions

Belches out the element of old

Overtaking all terrestrial matter

So precise, unthinking, and cold

I offer my eternal homage

To the conflagration of spheres and jaws

For too long you’ve been sealed from my realm

By fear and by ancient laws

-

With this offering of flawless life

I grant you passage into my plane

Let this earthly shell be your tool

I give my blood, my soul, and my brain

-

Oh, great lurker at the threshold

Let your will be known

So omnipresent, so perfect, all knowing

May all power be yours to hone

-

The all-in-one shall again return

To bleed the universe dry

With the knowledge of the rift intact

Your feeble race and all others will die

With my words, I conjure up Hell, and Hell takes the form of the familiar. This shell will double, and double, and double. Prototype for the archetype am I. She, the murk, will permeate; hive mind motherhood.

If it's Opposite Day,
wouldn't it not be Opposite Day?

I am a poor boy - A Capricorn
Perpetually saddened by my surroundings
Eight cats have sought me out for sanity's sake
But none of us seem able to escape on our own
All voices silenced for the sake of the rude,
the drunkard has-been, and so many varieties
of dream abandoned lives.
I fail to see any exit, reasoning, or plan.
These are the trials of a wisdom seeker
trapped in a pretty shell - conjuring Hell.

The west side of this city is falling apart and
my house is definitely no exception.
Any wealth left is gained from trading in
talent, hope, and aspiration for meager work
in refineries and plants that pollute
the bloodstream. Causing Decatur
to purposely decay into Lethe and
remove itself from memory and history - suicidal city.
I am just another generation in a long line
of poor romantics who close their eyes to the world.

I must have been born with the wrong last name
and composed of the wrong ingredients.
I may have insight, but no one dares or cares to hear it.
These people have given up on beauty and
have begun the worship of agriculture, but Artemis is no where to be seen.
My world has abandoned appreciation or art
because they have stripped it down to a profitable formula.
This may be a hopeless venture.
They have infected me with their grief.
Let the slumber of the soy city wash over me.

Even the idea was worthy of a fight
and all too much preparation.
We dolled ourselves up for alienation,
even though the faces present
were so familiar and etched into memory.

Who are you Mr.Cool?
If that is your real name.
Whiskey breath and filterless smokes
only impresses the girls in the movies,
with scripts written by clueless men
like you, who can't supply injury
so they bring only insult.

You are a secretary bird,
a mime, and the copycat kid.
Trying to be a bad boy and hide
amongst the spoiled brats you claim.

Keep on burrowing and severing ties,
ravishing resources leads to ruin.

You say you've heard rumors?
Well, I've heard facts.
I've seen facts!

Your parasitic disguise will crumble
under the weight of your genuinely selfish persona.
While the company I keep will only know
the side you wished to reveal
in front of all the pretty boys and girls.

scattered
individual
like the atma in every pebble
crowd drowning

I seem to have forgotten,
this is the
Pennywise bathroom.

Parental love could shatter the eggshell persona of a rascal young man
who carved ***** rhymes into the boy’s bathroom stalls,
who doesn’t understand the point of deadlines,
who saves his milk money to spend on strike anywhere matches
to burn shed bark from the maple in the back of the park.
He remembers the days before mom rediscovered her vices;
the days when there were cocktail meatballs and Christmas cookies.
Those years he will never get back now seem stringy, translucent,
and barely clinging to the fault lines of a shifting mind.
One day he will think of those cookies and taste bitter almonds
as his checking account becomes overdrawn,
as the fix-a-flat in his tire doesn’t stop the escaping air,
as he slips into the warm blanket of Bombay Sapphire.

The first conversation we had
was in seventh grade P.E. class.
It was laced with talks
of our unrealized love of escapism,
and how we had saw each other on the bus.
Mama's boys sure seem to sniff
one another out like lost puppy dogs.
We were clinging for warmth in those hormonal hallways.

You had a dog named Tyler,
and that always made me laugh inside.
So many look-a-like jokes and
misinterpreted commands and calls.
I remember his death and I
remember his absence so well now.
I never know how to console you, but I guess
you didn't really need it. We were both numb.

A numb only the fatherless feel
when they search for a reason with the void.
A loss of confidence and for words
that ushers in those awkward silences.
We should have had a voice to tell us:
"You're remarkable, you know that?"
But instead we got misunderstood glances,
and we had to be that voice for so many others.

esophageal flames.
shots of whiskey with a bleach chaser
on wednesday where the sky is clouded over
and the strays stick close to the watering hole.
pepto becomes water
to ***** the fires from within
while the alarm clock blinks 12:00
because I haven't set the time.

acid pools in stomachs mingling
with melatonin and valerian.
struggling to displace oneself in the scheme of things.

there is no question that Mitchum was the man,
or that Farewell, My Lovely is still too expensive for me to buy,
but I do question the length of time we spent
pondering the truth with  empty schedules and JWH-018.
we etched an identity from a corner-store drug era
filled with colorful characters and interesting flavors;
burning spare change and time probing the annals
of creativity for something to pop up and speak to us.

I know I shouldn't have stopped texting,
but you should have let the schoolyard bully stay home.
artsy flicks just don't have the same charm anymore,
and the struggle to stay seated is hard to purge,
pleading, wailing in a crowded cinema,
when we both know you could've prevented yourself
from never getting a chance to see this.
you hover still over the lights lining the aisles.

the phases of the moon have stayed loyal,
chili and tabasco are still great on a cold January afternoon,
and there is still some charm to cranking the stereo
on the stretch of highway out by Rock Springs.
Big Boss Man still asks "do you believe in God?"
before he asks an unsuspecting face for a dollar.
they still put on concerts in the summer over by The Winery,
but I haven't ever heard of any of the bands.

someone else manages The Smoker's Den now;
some kid I've never met, so I probably won't go back in.
he doesn't appreciate the comedy found in the face of Perot,
or the elusive, dark sweetness of the huckleberry.
in passing we exchanged a miraculous favor,
and in passing we managed to become different people,
in passing I walk on top of uncertain footprints,
and in passing you dream of film noir.

Throw me to the ground
I want rise up like a sprout in the fresh rain
and breathe the same air that you do
I want to shed this skin and know that I’m finally alive again
and not some brittle nymph shell
Forget everything and let’s rewrite it all

The crumbling husk of a little brown spider
chases after a swatted fly.
Not for a meal to replenish his brittle figure,
but because he envies such a glorious death.
This day is not for the covetous,
nor for the weaver. That eight fingered hand.
This is a day marked for interment by rain.
Both to be washed in Gaea's reshaping womb.

If God made dirt, and dirt don't hurt,
then why do we feed it the dead?
Whether mogul, scholar, radical, or drifter-
in soil we are stripped of semblance and class.
Man, beast, lain down as equals - offerings
to a hungry celestial wanderer.
The soaring nomad, mindlessly migrating.
Circling an eye of fire. Star sailing.

Ashes and dust. Blood and bone.
Thought and memory. Feeling and dream.
Our lives are poured into a basin of stone,
from a pitcher containing the constellations.
Every drop, a cosmic reflection
tethered by a silver cord to the present.
The perspective of heroes and house flies
is separated only by sensation.

You are the shelter, my egg.
A half-reflection of my time here.
I write with your hands,
I see through your eyes -
Green as the street where we spent
the two decades that meant the most.

So hip that you dissolved one of yours.
Always bringing the truth to the surface.
Not a law, a threat, or problem to stop you.
Defined by a friendly face and welcoming tone.
Refined by a southern hand and an era of sinners.
A mother to us all.

These words are all I have to give;
You taught me every last one.
Letters arranged to define the world.
Even though you know my intentions,
Remember, I do this because you let me be me.

You deserve enlightenment and laughter
Forever and again.

Obsidian-eater tells no fables,
Cloud-breather tells no facts,
and upon the Shady Mountain
you must memorize your tracks.
Safe shelter will elude you here.
Your mind will not know rest,
and every thought you held so dear
will be challenged with this test.

Rise up to the jagged summit
to view the landscape covered in tar.
The countryside has been corrupted
from sailing too close to the vile Null-Star.
Now sits a lake of umbral murk
where once were valleys ****** to vex.
This is truly the contrast of beauty;
Memories of life left only as specks.

Below the surface, in deep slumber,
the planet's heart beats in the core.
It knows not of your hardships,
just what it has in store.
A planetary cleansing
to wash away this putrid sin,
and upon this Shady Mountain
is where it will begin.

Vicious collector, violent specter.
Woven and tethered with the leftovers
or a kindergarten nap time rug.
Her motherly instincts overpower
her wit, as the banshees within her shriek
their born again, worn again verse.

Do you want to tie her to a leash?
Do you want to put her in a cage?
Do you want to let her roam the dark,
and forever nightly free her rage?

She's threatened by the markings
of a first-born tortoise shell.
The sounds of rabid children roars
and whipping flagellant tails
marks the arena where the pride lord
got her first taste of sour fear.

Do you want to hold her down?
Do you want to make her stay?
Do you want to lock her in her room,
and never let her run and play?

The house broth trickles onto the plywood floor
Filtered by fiberglass cotton candy
A humid breeze slams the oblong door
and knocks over the table I found so handy

This storm has brought my ceiling down on my head
The rafters are surely next to fall
Thunder sings songs with words never said
That entices the slugs to climb the wall

A deathtrap, a battlefield, a childhood home
have fused to form this cocoon of mold
The flies have settled, no longer to roam
and I'm left for the winds to bend and fold

This leaky old roof that Grandfather built
can barely now stand, let alone shelter strays
But if I leave in the night, I drag only my guilt
My body goes wandering, but my dream world stays

Sing a song for my humble eyes

With the voice of the fiery Sun

And when you get to the reprise

Do not falter, do not run

A silver glow lines your delicate form

as we dance to the hymns of the new summer’s crickets.

-

The grass trembles beneath your nimble feet

when you spin in the smoky wind.

-

I will nestle in the long tresses of your ruby hair

and hide from time’s watchful eye.

-

Moths circle in flocks, for they see our yearning as it really is;

a spout of light pouring into the on looking stars. (The shining embers that mark our youth)

-

They cling to us. Cloaks of spores, flowing like creeks,

cascading in the wisps of campfire.

-

We abandon our carved idols and earthly trinkets,

stumbling, wild-eyed in the dark.

-

Tonight is for the neverlasting present,

and the merry circles we spin in its guise.

-

Her faun eyes were gleaming.

I am but a simple creature. (Oh, go running again little boy)

-

Spin me a cocoon

and tonight let the sleep come lightly.

I’m nothing but a monolith of ice and gravel.

Stuck in these wintry doldrums.

Waiting, waiting for the time

when the birds return home and

Sol’s warm light puts life back in these bones of permafrost.

It is then she’ll come dancing and singing

like the days when we were young.

the sunday crowd wait in line
in their pretty sundresses
in their buttoned up shirts
in their sunday best
unbeknownst to them
god can be found in the filthy gutter
as easily as the chapel halls  
where the potlucks draw the crowd
when the sermons run dry
and the coffee gets cold

The first day was the longest
Mornings were for ambrosia
Nights were for castor oil
Lying through teeth and tempting through lenses
Purpose lost to the blind men
Who learn to sleep in seclusion
Visited rarely by saints and messiah fathers
Learn through pain, Oh sweet little pea

The second day was all too short
Kindred, but misunderstood
Sowing seeds and ripping up weeds
Parading around town with roaring sorrow royalty
Following scripts and playing parts
For judges, elders, and "renegade" symbols
Promises, popularity; it's all just a rusty mirage
This place isn't for you, Oh sweet little pea

The third day was spent in Dada
Purgatory for insanity
Whimsical, yes, but something was blatantly missing
This place was rich with new color and null
Vibrant, yet lifelessly powered by prescriptions
No real substance, only mist-forms
Bubbling broth in a surreal soup
Don't get digested, Oh sweet little pea

The fourth day was spent comatose
Mind locked away, matter did play
Dancing the steps of the Ent
Uncaring of anything when the throne was in sight
Earthly pleasures before the storm
This place was struggling to breathe
Mistakes taking shape and walking
The fog is blinding, Oh sweet little pea

The fifth day was a resurrection of sorts
A new man with new power to drink
Arrogance returned with the blind
Taking flight to the coasts of gold
Again those rusty promises plagued
Whether a doll, a tool, or a foolish venture
Truth was an impossible gesture
It's never that easy, Oh sweet little pea

The sixth day was a realization
Rest came easy when the future didn't bark
The treasure was buried in the yard under ash
And the truth was in the homestead
Everywhere at once, the rain trickled
The seeds did more than sprout
Tap roots and accepting - light words
Let the answers find you, Oh sweet little pea

If you’re surrounded by people in fanciful dress,
who only take advice from peers they want to impress,
just remember that soon you’ll be home in your bed
where the only racket is the thoughts in your head.

The leaves will change color and the skies will turn grey,
the sun will go hiding early on in the day,
the chimneys will smoke, the nights will stay strange,
and we’ll lose track of time keeping track of the change.

No water,
lights;
just her screech,
and that ****** tapping.

In the temple built from straw,
humanity gives way to something animal.
Primal chanting of age of songs
and the hypnotic undulating of carnal dance
mark that spirits of the eldest
have arrived from their planar journey.

In the temple built from wood,
baubles have been blessed by the watcher.
Portraits crying oil, and statues carved from ivory
that slurp up spoonfuls of goat's milk.
Even the patron's tongues are sacred;
spouting the language of the birds.

In the temple built from stone,
all entrances have been sealed from view.
The scriptures are now so sacred
that they resonate only within these walls.
Soothing secrets for the selected pious
who give God their gold so graciously.

In the temple of the wolf
there is but one parishioner present.
No doors, no floors, no walls or ceilings;
just keen eyes and a mind unclouded.
Breathing and dreaming worship
within his body most holy.

There is a thing that lives in a cave in the woods

A desperate and silent villain

We keep it at bay with one simple secret

DV UVVW RG GSV YPMMW MU MFI XSRPWIVN

He comes in the hour of the wispy dew

There is only one thing that can purge him

At the foot of the hills beneath the mist

DV HPRG GSV GSIMZG MU Z ERITRN

With an elder’s body and a serpent’s tongue

He licks at the altar with hunger

Revealing the scar he loves to bear

SV RI NZIQVW DRGS GSV WVERP’H NFOYVI

He comes again and again, night after night

We can’t keep up with the slaughter

To make sure his belly is never unfilled

DV NFHG RNLIVTNZGV ZPP MU MFI WZFTSGVIH

The flickering light of the lantern’s flame
lays lightly upon the lingering stream.
I do not know where the water leads,
but I’ll drink my fill till the aches subside.
The moss grows rampant among the trees
in this mighty forest that eyes have forgot.
And still I sit, watching it grow
until the words in the songs of birds grow clear.
The heartbeat of the soil slowly churns
beneath my bunions and well-traversed heels.
The sky won’t fall, so I have time to wait.
Just like the ferry, tethered to the old dying walnut.

The man who can't read came to visit today,
he sung along to each song that the radio played.
The track marks and scabs wove a story of bother;
of a life cut off short, my uncle, his father.

The man who can't read can fix anything:
a gasket, a hinge, a lever, a spring.
He pedals his bike and sweats up a storm,
no lights, no water, just part of his norm.

The man who can't read used to play in the yard;
we'd catch crickets under bricks, and skin knees til they scarred.
Garter snakes hid under the walnut tree
and we'd catch one in each hand and grandma would flee.

The man who can't read has been told that he's dumb,
that he smells like an ashtray and looks like a ***.
He still owns a picture of when we were young,
when we lived in the house where the picture was hung.

At dawn's first light, she awakens,
casting off her grey stone shell.
Her skin reflects Old Sol's blaze,
revealing no sign of age or blemish.

She takes to the tower's spiral staircase,
descending with the timely grace
of Autumn's auburn leaves falling.
To the pier, she walks alone.

She comes to rest on an ivory throne
and casts her gaze upon the mountainside.
Dining on dates and a spectrum of berries
as she solemnly inspects every summit and base.

Sailing down from overhead,
a hunting falcon attempts to catch a view
of the maiden seated on her chiseled cloud.
She neither blinks, nor turns. Eyes set upon the jagged rocks.

Her purpose is frightful, but she continues.
From eras since passed and still to unhatch,
she waits for the mountains to come alive.
Once more, she will tend to her hard-set herd.

I keep my feet firmly planted

The ground is my only ally now

My knees tremble as if the world were crumbling

Beneath my ten exhausted toes

Maybe if I just stare off into space

The moments will slip by quicker

And she won’t notice that I’m late

To the only thing that matters to her

-

Maybe she’ll believe I’ve been here from the start

Or if she already does, my breath might slow

I ran with all my might

But time is hardly on my side when my tie won’t tie

And my laces won’t lace

Did she see me yet?

Is she’s waiting on that stage?

Waiting for her turn to chirp her tune

-

I wait for her name to be called

Hoping she hasn’t eyeballed me in faceless crowd

She’s a shining solo star

And I’m just the wondering weary witness

Fear was my drive and pulse

But relief was not there to calm my hammering heart

Her precious name did not ring in my ears

For I missed her tones in time by a mile

This is not a poem,
but an image representing one.